


So You Say You're Drowning

by mintgr33ntea



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Humanstuck, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-02-12 11:59:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2109075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintgr33ntea/pseuds/mintgr33ntea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drowning is interesting in that, barring massively unfortunate circumstances, you almost choose to let it happen. You know that air is up, but you insist on swimming down. Or maybe you don't even swim, maybe you cross your legs at the bottom of a swimming pool and let the last of your oxygen escape in bubbles from your blue lips. Maybe someone saves you. But more likely, they won't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

It's become a problem, you think. The distance. Any sane human being, and by sane you mean anyone who has ever had the sense not to engage in a long-distance relationship with a reclusive, OCD whackjob, would have dumped your sorry ass months ago. But he's still here, though only really in spirit and spite. Spirit in the way you sometimes think you can smell his ridiculously expensive and not-even-that-great cologne, spite in the way your only real emotion these days is a quiet kind of anger, always directed at him.

And he is a million miles away.

Geographically he's only a few thousand kilometers from you, interning at some fancy-ass design label in New York City. He used to send you pictures, back when having a crazy boyfriend on the other side of the country was such a novelty to him that he'd even suggest that you fly out and attend a show or two during the summer. But after a few weeks of spending what felt like (and what probably was) every waking moment texting him and scouring airline websites for cheap direct flights to NYC, you noticed his messages growing shorter and shorter.

You weren't an idiot, and you weren't surprised. You even convinced yourself that you weren't sad. He was a douchebag, really, and an asshole and just an all-around fuckwit who couldn't leave home without using an entire travel-size bottle of gel to perfect the hairstyle that marked him so clearly as lord of the ass-wads.

So you stopped responding when he bothered to text, stopped answering his calls and his occasional, passive-aggressive emails, and, as a metaphorical gesture of cliche romantic scorn, you had the locks to your small apartment changed. Not that he would ever notice, given that he never visited.

You got on, of course. Although to any sane person (refer to the definition above), it might appear that you were trying to function in much the same way as a small ocean sponge. Moving very little, attempting to filter-feed through your pores clogged with oil from the junk you'd eat when it became apparent that you could not, in fact, glean nutrition from the air.

But the point is, you did eat. At least enough to prevent your institutionalization at the hands of one of your well-meaning but over-involved friends. Karkat ended up calling 911 on you a few times anyway, on account that you sometimes decided you had better things to do than answer his angry messages, which were apparently meant to communicate the utmost concern for your well being.

Go figure.

The ambulance guys were pretty cool, you guess. More chilled the fuck out than KK was when he found out you hadn't been dragged to the nearest mental hospital against your will. And you were like, "dude, I have rights" and he was like "fuckfukk Fuck FUCK FUUUCK Sollux godfuckiNGDAMMIT!"Or something like that.

If you really thought about it, and honestly, you didn't have to think all that hard to come to this conclusion, your whole relationship with him was pretty ill-advised. Ill-advised and built out of a once-mutual need for a crying shoulder and listening ear. He knew how fucked in the head you were, and you resigned yourself to live with his complete self-absorption in the small, pathetic hope that he would one day extend the boundaries of all that encompassed his world to include you.

Simply put, you had made the mistake of actually caring about the boy/man/sonofabitch who called you his boyfriend. And he hadn't seen fit to return the favor.

But, as you so like to remind Karkat when he shriek-rants at you about love and your own obvious stupidity in that particular area, it's not as if you're moping around your house with ten or thirty cats, waiting for your beloved to realize his mistake in essentially leaving you to your cat piss and litter-scented devices.

"Right," he'll say, voice dripping with sneer, eyes narrowed towards your predictably slouched form, "you're 100%. You're goddamned golden, fucking ponyboy Captor. You must shit solid turds of fucking sugar and heartwarming spice, from how goddamned happy you obviously goddamned are."

And you'll sigh and he'll get his panties twisted into one hell of a knot until he gets thirsty and yells that he's, "going to get a fucking water bottle," because he, "doesn't trust this shitty tap in your shitty apartment to spew out anything other than actual liquid 'fuck you' in the form of disease-ridden, pestulant H2-fucking-O!"

Then he'll slam the door and leave you bathed in the glow of your ten or thirty computer monitors until he decides to come back and pick up where he left off.

So this was your life now, perpetually skirting the line between functional and certifiable, wasting your late adolescence breathing the same stale air and feeling the same grubby carpet beneath your bony feet day after throat-choking, mind-fucking, soul-killing day. You suppose it could be worse.

You have a few jobs which include blinking absently at an LED screen for six hours every day, driving your best and only friend up the proverbial fucking wall, and improving the security/general aesthetic appeal of various websites around the 'net. The third one is the only one that pays in actual money, although if you could buy protein bars with all of the Karkat-animosity that you've banked over the years, you'd quit your paying job in a heartbeat.

If you could make a career out of annoying the general population, you'd be the happiest motherfucker on the planet. Also the richest, because you're a complete and total asshole.

It isn't lost on you how completely you embody the modern cliche of the underfed, over tired computer genius scraping a living off of the dregs of the internet. You've worked very hard to accumulate a large number of shits-you-don't-give, which swirl im a glorious vortex of apathy around everything you do and though you're loath to admit it, a lot of your time is spent forcing yourself into the mold that society seems to have created just for you.

When ED left and took half of you with him, it was almost too convenient to camouflage your depressive tendencies as the eccentricities of an anti-social computer programmer.

Not like it was a conscious choice or anything, it just seemed to happen.

So you were still trying to get back up on your skinny little horse legs and you were still spending more time bitching to KK about life than actually living, and you were still killing yourself slowly with cigarettes and alcohol and anti-depressants and energy drinks. But like you said, it could be worse.

Although, before things were this bad (and if you're really honest with yourself, you know they've gotten way beyond bad), you think you remember them being better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's become a problem, you think. 
> 
> The fact that the rest of this fic will end up tripping inelegantly down the hill of "damn, girl. That first chapter was pretty good. Did something burrow its way into your brain and start threatening to secrete some deadly toxin if you didn't start sucking at writing?" 
> 
> The answer is a resounding probably not.


	2. Chapter 2

"… and if you think for one second that I'm going to just clear my calendar and rush over there to listen to you, like, complain even more than you already do over the phone, not to mention that I'd have to borrow Aradia's car again and she might actually have things to do did you ever even think about that, Eridan?!"

The whole right side of your face tingles with the vibrations from the phone pressed tightly between your cheek and your shoulder, Fef's voice becoming even shriller as she continues her lecture.

"And another thing, Eridan, you can't text me during class I mean God, that shouldn't be something I have to tell you can't you even think about other people for, like, one minute?"

A familiar tone sounds in your ear, signaling an incoming call. You clear your throat. "Fef."

Her voice catches, like someone has wrapped a hand around her throat and squeezed just hard enough to cut off her next sentence. A pause. "Yes, Eridan?" You can practically feel the exasperation oozing over the cellular network and you squeeze your eyes closed, anticipating even more lecturing in the very near future. With a deep breath in, you cross the fingers of the hand not holding the cell phone.

"Fef I have another call," you blurt, eyes still closed tightly against the early afternoon sun and the image of Feferi's glaring face. The line stays silent for a moment, letting you breathe, thinking that maybe she understands. Fef's a reasonable gal after all, she's got to realize that yo—

SMACK

The line goes dead.

You sigh. Real mature, Fef. If she wants to hurl her I-phones into dorm room walls, what can you do to stop her? And people say you're dramatic.

With a few quick taps on your screen, you answer the other line. "This is Eridan Ampora speakin', who the fuck is callin'?"

The line is dead.

You shrug, figuring it was some lowlife from school trying to impress a friend like hey, I have Eridan Ampora's phone number don't believe me I'll prove it. Pathetic. But you have better things to do than worry about losers and how they pass their time. You have serious business to attend to; perfect bodies don't tan themselves.

The sun beats down on your narrow shoulders in a way that would be immensely threatening to your porcelain complexion had you not applied copious amounts of sunblock and moisturizer to every visible bit of skin on your body (and some bits that were not visible; UV rays can be destructive, thank you very much).

A tiny bead of sweat snakes from the back of your neck down your back and into your speedo, prompting you to reach for one of the fluffy white towels resting on the chaise next to yours, alongside extra sunblock and your Gucci sunglasses case. Dabbing at the back of your neck, you survey the pool area in front of you with a casual arrogance.

Irregularly-shaped in-ground pool with a connecting hot tub, an intricate wrought-iron fence partially obscured from view by immaculate hedges, a reasonably-sized kabana boasting air-conditioning and a plasma screen television mounted on one insulated wall. And, of course, you own little 'reading nook' as you like to call it, though you spend more time lounging in it with your eyes closed and sunglasses on, cocktail in hand.

Today, the chef had recommended a green apple and mint concoction, which was presently located on a small glass table to your left, ice melting in the glaring heat. You purse your lips and set your phone down next to the warming drink. You plan to ask for another when the maid came around to assess your needs.

Warm cocktails, the almost-unpleasant heat, and now Feferi's abrupt and frankly rather rude hanging-up were all inconveniences that you should not be forced to deal with but were, all the same, slowly forcing you lower lip out into a miserable pout. Though it couldn't take away the effortless beauty of your features, it could certainly mar them to the point of mediocrity. What an absolutely bitchy litt—

"Mr. Ampora?" You snap your head to the right, sending a twinge of discomfort through your thin neck and a surge of indignance through your already smarted mind. A snarl begins to build up being your gritted teeth and before you can quell your annoyance, it escapes into the small, gleeful face of your household's executive maid.

"What?" you snap, too wound up to care that the maid's cheerful façade falters under your glare.

"I was just coming out to make sure you were satisfied, Mr. Ampora," she assures you, setting her agreeable smile back in place and picking up the damp cocktail glass without being asked. "I'll have Enrique freshen this up for you." As she bustles around your lounge, you lift your manicured fingers to your glasses and tilt them down your nose, exposing your squinted eyes to the sunlight.

"Just get me another one," you hiss. "Somethin' sweeter this time, if it's not too much trouble for you and that dumbass of a chef." The maid simply nods as she collects the various towels and other debris you've let accumulate around your chair, as you'd been unwilling to get up for anything more than a quick dip in the chilly aqua water. This was all normal. The maid departs with your trash and the glass of green apple slush, and you lean back on your chair, pushing your glasses back up the bridge of your delicate nose.

Feferi had been uncharacteristically short with you lately, testing your patience with her disinterest and inciting you to anger with her lengthy, self-righteous lectures. All of them had something to do with your various problems, of which she was convinced you had many. According to her, you were too clingy, too spoiled, too self-absorbed, and too sheltered. She was one to talk; Fef had attended an all-girl's private school for most of her education. If anyone was sheltered…

But you forgave her every single time, out the the limitless benevolence of your dear heart, because she had been your best friend for as long as you can remember. Your parents had been members of the same country club, back when the Peixes and Ampora families were both practically middle-class, and the two of you had met in the large outdoor pool while her mother and yours discussed celebrity gossip. Well, actually, you had been drowning. And Feferi had pulled you out of the water and kind of smacked you around until you started coughing up gross chlorinated water all over your then-scrawny chest. Your mother had cried with relief and publicly declared that Feferi was her second child and god bless her, Carol, she saved Edi's life can you even believe it?

So yeah, the endless and wonderful generosity of your own wonderful heart allows you to forgive Fef for hanging up on you this time. And all of the other times. And it has nothing to do with any residual adoration for her, born when you saw her drawing her hand back to smack you and thus revealing how her bikini top had slid just slightly to the left. Nothing to do with that at all.

But memories of childhood debauchery aside, you were still pouting, which was unacceptable on the grounds that you were wealthy as fuck and shouldn't have to experience something as common as dissatisfaction. Maybe, you think, you should call Fef back.

Not a bad plan.

Sitting up slowly, so you don't have one of your frighteningly common dizzy spells (the doctors believe you're slightly anemic, your father believes you're a drama queen), you stretch your arms over your head, rotate your neck 90 degrees each way, and reach for your phone. There's a tall glass filled with some kind of pink beverage sweating next to the device-the maid must have replaced the drink while you were musing.

Shielding the screen with one hand, you begin to scroll through your contacts until you get to the "F's". Right next to 'Fef 3' is 'Fef's roomate who is also very insane and creepy'. You select the latter.

Two rings is all it takes for Amy or whatever her name is to pick up. "Hello?" Her voice is upbeat, easygoing. You hate it.

"Yes hi this is Eridan Ampora. I'm callin' for Fef and I would appreciate if you'd hand her the phone on account that hers is probably a useless pile of plastic," you pause for a breath, "because, as I understand it, she threw it against a wall earlier today."

Alyssa is silent for a moment. Then she laughs. "Oh my gosh, that's what that was?" Her giggling is sending ants crawling over your skin. "Well," she finally gets out, composing herself, "I'd love to help but she actually just left."

You groan inwardly. Anabell may sound sweet, but you remember meeting her when Fef asked you to help her move into her dorm. The girl had greeted you with a smile, then proceeded to horrify you with her collection of small dead mammals preserved in various clear jars. "I'm looking into taxidermy, " she had said when asked about her career prospects. You guess that's why the school put Fef and her together-Fef was studying marine biology.

"Hello?" Alex speaks into the phone, snapping you out of your recollections. You sigh heavily.

"Just tell her I called um..." you stutter, having been ready to say her name. She snorts.

"Oh, it's Aradia. You helped me move in last year, I think." Now it's your turn to snort - of course she remembers you. Who could forget meeting such a perfect human specimen?

"Right, Amelia," you sneer, "just make sure that Fef gets the message." You can almost see her eyes narrowing.

"Will do, Eridan."

And then she hangs up.

Everyone, you think to yourself while taking a dainty sip from the tall glass on the table, is full of absolute shit.

 

Interlude 1

 

Fef,

Hey! I won't be able to meet you for lunch today (prof's being a YOU KNOW WHAT and I really need the extra credit he's holding over my head so I'll have to stay in class for an hour or two later) but I CAN pick you up for dinner tonight. How about around 6? A dinner date might be even better than a lunch date, anyway ^^ If the tablecloths are long, I promise I'll engage in some cliche flirtations involving hitting your foot with mine, repeatedly. Sound good? I think so!

Love you, darling.

~Ara-dork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eridan, man. He's just. I don't even know how to write him, you feel me? And I'm basically him irl, tbh. You know the type: needy, emotionally clingy, obsessed with their hair. Maybe it's just the hair thing.
> 
> I AM concerned about my hair virtually 100% of the time I am conscious. And even sometimes when I'm not. You know those dreams where you're naked on the first day of school or whatever? I have never gotten those. My nightmares feature bad grades and worse hair days. 
> 
> Count yourselves lucky, dream people who show up to class in their birthday suit.


	3. Chapter 3

You remember setting your phone to silent. 

That was the only thing you could think of as you gripped the steering wheel of your ancient car and guided it haphazardly out of the dorms’ parking lot, the fact that the phone call you had just gotten shouldn’t have even created a sound. You had been dozing, the laptop nearest your eyeballs playing some shitty movie that you’d torrented earlier in the week for the purpose of having something to stare at while you tried (and failed) to fall asleep properly. Your teeth felt fuzzy and you worked your tongue between them in a fruitless effort to disengage the particles of popcorn shell that had taken up residence next to your far-from-pearly whites. This was meant to distract you. It did not. 

The phone call. 

“Mr. Captor?” A measured voice had floated into your ear and tapped at your half-consious brain. 

“Speaking,” you warbled, trying to subtly clear your throat and do a general bodily systems check while you waited for the voice to respond. All four limbs, check. Gross hair, check. Stomach trying to eat itself out of sheer desperation, check. All systems go. 

“Mr. Captor,” the voice continued, “I’m afraid we have some news concerning two friends of yours. A Ms. Peixes and a Ms. Megido?”

Fef and AA. You almost corrected the voice out of habit, but it cut you off just as you had taken in the tired breath. 

“Both Ms. Peixes and Ms. Megido are presently located at Kent County Hospital in Warwick.” Your mind tripped over itself in clumsy, sleepy patterns. 

“Wait,” you had gotten out after a ridiculous amount of effort, “they’re where?”

“Presently located at Kent County Hospital in Warwick, Mr. Captor. I’m afraid that they were involved in a lethal car accident.”

You had hung up after that. It was probably a stupid thing to do; after all, the voice had seemed ready to provide you with directions and other instructions while instead you chose to simply hop in your car and speed down to Warwick without a care as to the general safety of the rest of the population. One question continues to circle in your mind, and you have to pinch your own arm repeatedly to get it to leave you alone. 

How lethal?

Lethality is pretty relative, after all, you tell yourself every time a red light forces you to slow your car’s break-neck pace. Terminal, now that’s scary. But lethal? Not a huge deal.  
That’s the one that means the same as, “they’re lucky to be alive,” after all. Right? You’ll get to the hospital looking all disheveled (well, for you it’s not so much disheveled as it is a constant state of grubby existence) and Fef will be sitting up in the waiting room with AA’s head on her shoulder, looking miffed that you took so long to come pick them up. They’re TIRED, Sollux. What gives? 

This is obviously what will happen. No question about it. 

You still can’t seem to keep your foot from slamming into the gas pedal whenever you see green from the light above your head, but that’s normal. You’re jittery. That voice on the phone freaked you out, and for no good reason! There’s no way Fef and AA are anything other than absolutely, 100% a-ok. 

Girls like them don’t die in car accidents. Girls like them die by lightning strikes, by being swept up by tornados, by trying to save a child from the crash of a tsunami. Nature is the only force that could stand a chance of ending girls like Feferi and Aradia. Not a ton of steel and rubber in some kind of accident. 

You almost laugh at the idea. Almost. 

As you’re almost laughing, you see the sign for the Kent County Emergency Room. You pull in and circle the lot twice before you find a parking space. Wednesday evening and suddenly everyone feels like getting fucking injured, apparently. 

You turn off your car and wait until the last components find rest inside the metal body of the vehicle. Looking outside, you can tell that it’s a summer evening; the gentle heat is starting to find its way into the car and a sunset that looks like haphazard brushstrokes of color is painted over the horizon. Black outlines of trees add texture to the navy sky. Your heartbeat quickens. 

Stepping out of the car is hard, since you’re parked so close to two other vehicles. You slide your way between cars and begin walking towards the well-lit emergency room doors, which slide open easily to grant you entrance.

The waiting room is bustling, although you wonder if bustling has too carefree a connotation for a hospital waiting room. Maybe full of activity is a better way to put it. What do you care, anyway? 

There is a series of burgundy-upholstered chairs arranged in rows leading away from what you guess is the reception desk. A twenty-something woman behind that desk winds her hair into a loose bun and sticks it with a pencil, looking frazzled. The people around you are in various states of agony. You think you see a man with part of a spoon stuck in his neck. 

You walk up towards the front desk and watch as the disgruntled receptionist hurriedly sorts paper into what must be at least seven different piles while trying to balance her chipped white mug long enough to take a sip of apparently much-needed coffee. You wonder how you’re supposed to get her attention, or even if this is where you’re supposed to be. You’re not a patient, isn’t there another receptionist you should be bothering? 

If this was a hotel, even a second rate one, there’d be a little bell that you could ring for service. You guess that hospitals don’t subscribe to that manner of communication. Shame. 

“May I help you?” A tired, but authoritative voice comes from behind you and as you turn around, you see a nurse wearing pale green scrubs eyeing you suspiciously. Do you look that much like a stoner, you wonder. Skinny, red eyes, ok, you guess you can see where she’s coming from. 

“Um, yes hi, I’m Sollux Captor,” you manage to get out, voice almost swallowed up by the activity in the waiting room. “I got a call about two of my friends, Feferi Peixes and Aradia Megido?” 

The nurse seems lost for a moment, like those names mean nothing to her, but the receptionist who is now behind you, clears her throat and you turn quickly enough to see her make some kind of sign with her hand. Suddenly, the nurse seems to know exactly what you’re talking about. 

“They’re in room 113, Maryam,” says the receptionist, while the nurse (Maryam, you guess) hurries over and grabs a manila folder that had been resting against the ancient computer monitor and quickly flips through the pages inside. 

“Of course,” she muses, “thank you, dear.” The receptionist nods and returns to her sorting while Maryam beckons to you with one finger. “This way, Mr. Captor.”

Maryam leads you through what appears to be a communal examination room with curtains separating the medical-looking beds spaced about six feet apart. There are people in every bed with doctors and orderlies scurrying around to each curtained examination room in turn, wielding IV lines and clipboards. You are just starting to wonder which beds Fef and AA occupy when Maryam turns around and stops you. 

“These are rooms one through ten, Mr. Captor. Your friends are located in one of our private rooms.” She continues walking at a quick, business-like pace that you struggle to match, weaving through doctors and wheelchairs like she does this for a living. You guess she kind of does. 

Outside of the large examination room is a short, white hallway with linoleum floors and three rooms on each side. “Pretty small facility,” you mumble under your breath, not expecting her to hear. 

Of course, she does. You get the feeling that she’s the kind of person who hears everything said within a twenty foot radius. 

“Well, Mr. Captor,” she replies, halting at the second door on the right side of the hallway, “Rhode Island is a pretty small state. And Kent County has a population of just over 160,000 people. Our facilities meet the needs of a population that size.” She reaches for the door knob, then stops. Her eyes turn to meet yours. 

“What?” You ask, more than eager to reassure yourself of Fef and AA’s well-being and to be on your merry way. Maryam purses her lips. 

“I have to say, Mr. Captor,” she begins, “I am very impressed with the presence of mind you seem to be exhibiting during what must be a time of such extraordinary mental and emotional stress for you.”

You shrug, a little irritated that she’s taking up your time with her pretentious psycho-babble. “Well,” you say, “I guess I’m just great like that.” You think you see her roll her eyes, but you can’t bring yourself to care. 

Because then she opens the door.

Your phone was supposed to be silent. 

 

Interlude 2

 

Ara-dear,

Don’t worry about a thing!! I know you super need that extra credit and I would LOVE to meet you for dinner. How about that new sushi place in town? I heard they were offering a special to U kids with their IDs on them and I’m totally in the mood for some spicy tuna ;) Don’t know if they have long tablecloths, but I’ll letcha kiss me as many times as you like to make up for the lack of footsie ^^ 6 o’clock sounds great! I can’t wait!! 

Smoochies ^3^, 

~ Fef

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I focus too much on the phone thing? I think I might have.  
> Mer.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kanaya is a cold bitch to Vriska who serket-ly (pfffft ^^) loves it and makes me want to hurl myself off of a cliff.

8:30 pm. August 11th, 2014. 

Kanaya repeated this data in her mind over and over as she walked to the front desk and replaced the manila folder she had picked up in preparation for her less-than-savory task that evening. Shifts were due to change in less than a half hour, but she let a small grin find its way onto her otherwise pursed lips as she saw Vriska still sorting bills and sucking down black hospital coffee. 

“Ding ding,” she called, tapping on an imaginary call bell next to the sign-in sheet resting on the reception desk. Vriska looked up, her mascara flaking beneath squinted blue eyes. 

“Yeah?” She inquired, mellowed a bit by the long day and the monotonous task of placing paper into seven or so organized piles. “Thought you’d still be in 13.”

Kanaya sighed lightly, sliding the folder between the warm computer monitor and a book of medical oddities resting at an easy angle against it. Vriska’s insistence on reading such publications while on duty was equal parts mortifying and charming, although Kanaya assumed that she really only did it to get gasps of minor shock from the nursing students that would periodically come by to refresh their thermoses with Vriska’s slightly-less-horrid-than-the-cafeteria’s blend of coffee. She would brew it in a tiny CoffeeMate pot underneath her desk, and usually the one-mug serving was reserved for whichever bright-eyed young thing Vriska was sleeping with at the time. 

Or so it was as Kanaya perceived it. But, as she reminded herself often, the coffee really hadn’t been worth the emotional wringer that was a relationship with Vriska Serket. 

“I left him in there for a few minutes,” Kanaya explained, watching as Vriska resumed her sorting. “He requested a state of privacy in which to properly begin the mourning process.”

“What a sweetie you are, Maryam,” Vriska taunted, her bangs escaping the pencil-held knot at the top of her head and flopping around her face, “letting that geek get his necromancy on while you come and chat me up.”

Kanaya exhaled quickly through her nose, which produced a small gust of air that could be interpreted as either a laugh or an exasperated sigh, depending on the party. Vriska took it as both. 

“Well, unfortunately for you Ms. Mortem,” she chuckled, “I am currently operating as the better half of this hospital’s new power couple. What is it they say,” she paused, tapping her lower lip with one black fingernail and staring into the fluorescent lights overhead, “if you like it you should have put a fifty thousand dollar blood diamond ring right fucking on it?”

Kanaya grimaced. “I am sure that is not the expression, Ms. Serket.” Vriska shrugged and turned away to grab more bills. 

“Ah, well,” she sighed in farcical sorrow, “I suppose I am simply not as literary as you are, Maryam.”

“I would never agree with anything more, Ms. Serket.”

“Ooh, your formality has me soaking wet, Ms. Maryam.”

“You say that as if it is an accomplishment to get you aroused, Ms. Serket.”

“Are you callin’ me a slut, Ms. Maryam?”

“I would not use that terminology, no, Ms. Serket.”

Vriska looked up and grinned into Kayana’s neutral expression. “Then what terminology would you use, Ms. Maryam. Scandalize me!”

Kanaya cleared her throat and glanced over as a doctor lead a patient past the desk and back into the examination suite. “I’ll need the medical records for both patients in 13 to give to the surgeons.”

A small chuckle. “Oh, those organ donors,” Vriska drawled, “I’ll have those for you in ten minutes.”

“Thank you, Ms. Serket.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. Maryam.”

Kanaya turned away and began to walk back towards the private rooms. She could feel Vriska’s gaze on her back and she breathed out to calm her nerves. 

Kanaya Maryam absolutely and with every silken fiber of her perfectly icy being, lived for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes I'm not sure if I ship this or if I'm just in awe of the dynamic. Maybe I like it that Kanaya, who I put on a pedestal of perfection, goes after Vriska, who's pretty much a sleaze. Maybe on some personal level, I see myself as the fuckin' sleaze and am hoping to find my Kanaya someday. 
> 
> Or, maybe I just like writing filler couples who will break up within chapters.
> 
> You decide ;)


	5. Chapter 5

“Have you considered, maybe, just for once, not being so utterly abrasive and insensitive?!”

You pause the message, letting Fef’s angry words wash over your ears like fine, soy-based moisturizer. Her voice was so lovely when she was mad, in the moments when you and your alleged insensitivity were at the center of her universe. You weren’t masochistic enough to save a message like this just because she was yelling at you, though. 

Un-pause. 

“... Well, I have to go Eridan. I have class early tomorrow.” A sigh. “Look, Eri. I know I give you a lot of crap. but I just want to say that I do miss you sometimes and I hope you have a really great week, ok?”

End message. 

You quickly hit ‘seven’ on your phone to make sure that the message, highly overplayed as it is, gets saved again. 

Fef was always doing things like this to you in her messages, chewing you out and then saying something sweet like that she missed you. Men, you recall, refer to this as receiving “mixed signals”. You like to refer to it privately as being “fucked with.” 

When Fef had first moved out of her parents’ lavish coast-side estate to attend college inland, you had cried yourself to sleep every night for a month. The girl-next-door, your dear love, attending a public university with people who didn’t see anything wrong with eating what was basically prison food at a steeper price in the campus dining halls. 

Fef insisted, on the numerous occasions that you brought it up, that the cafeteria food was not that bad. You’d assumed it was necessary for her to pretend this in order to cope with her horrible life decisions.

As much as it killed you to admit that Fef had made a terrible mistake, she had. And this was just more fucking proof of it. Unless the campus refused to allow you to collect her belongings and rudely told you to screw off, it would be the last shred of proof you’d ever be able to amass. 

You fucking told her not to go to a public university. 

And now she was dead. 

The word ‘dead’ passed through your mind and sent a shudder through your bare limbs. Feferi Peixes, dead. In a car accident. With her awful, terrifying, taxidermist friend at the wheel. 

You were going to kill that stuck up, careless bitch when you went inland. 

For now, though, you let your still-pale-despite-hours-of-brutal-sunlight-exposure legs stretch out in front of you on top of your purple silk duvet and you slowly brought your trembling lips to your knees. The stretch sent sharp pain through your back and hamstrings, but it provided the temporary distraction you needed in order to gather your thoughts. 

Both of your parents were out, having heard the news they embraced their powers of attorney over the Peixes estate. Fef’s mom, the only parent she’d ever known, had died during a protest over her company’s exploitation of child labor in developing countries. Some renegade activist had thrown a bucket of red paint, which would have been perfectly harmless had Ms. Peixes not been allergic to red dye #36. 

Fef had been 10 years old at the time and suddenly, she was the only living heir to a massive fortune and an even larger corporation. At her request, you father had become her go-to legal counsel and he had assisted in appointing an independent leadership for Peixes inc. 

Your mother had provided emotional support and financial advice, as well as becoming the overseeing director for the newly appointed leadership. Out of respect for Fef,  
Dualscar hadn’t attempted one of its notorious hostile takeovers of Peixes inc.  
Not until Fef had turned twelve, at least. Your parents had backed off when it became clear that they were bound by iron-clad non-compete clauses in their legal agreements with Fef. 

So both of them were currently out, making sure that their financial status was unchanged and subtly attempting to buy the corporation without seeming unsympathetic. 

Meanwhile, you were attempting not to fling yourself out of the nearest window. 

Memories of Fef’s life keep flashing through your addled mind and causing a relentless ache behind your eyes as you unconsciously refuse to cry. Fef on her first day of middle school, with a late baby tooth hole in the front of her mouth, grinning wildly and clutching a lunchbox shaped like a fish. Fef pouring over animal rights texts and articles while you leaned your head on damp arms, trying to get her into your pool. Fef coming down her stairs in a flash of magenta on the night of her 10th grade formal, when she had asked you to come ‘as her friend’. Fef speeding down the highway with her convertible's top open and her thick black hair escaping her ponytail. 

Fef breathing. Fef blinking. Fef producing energy from food in order to function as a living, breathing, blinking human being.

You can’t cry; it feels like your whole body is denying this world-altering shift in your existence, this sudden lack of your center. The girl you loved (who loved you?) is dead in some hospital twenty miles from here and you can’t even go see her because the sons of bitches who work there have already gone to town on her perfect body to extract her vital organs and put them in places they don’t belong. Namely, into other people. 

Or so that bumblefuck Sollux had informed you. 

He’d called about an hour ago, since you’d been the second emergency contact on Fef’s ID card and the hospital hadn’t bothered to call you since they’d reached him first. He had a lisp, and his voice sounded thin. Maybe tired. 

You hadn’t paid much attention to what he said, what with the resounding chorus of “girlfriend-stealing homewrecker sonofabitch” playing on loop inside your ears for what felt like the entire duration of his miserable phone call. 

“Look, the nurse here says that apparently your parents have mutual power of attorney for FF and her stuff, so do you want to come up here tonight and help me sort this shi- er, thing out?” The thin, lispy voice had grated on your eardrums. 

You hadn’t responded. A sigh. 

“Ok, I get that this is a really tough situation to be in,” he’d continued, “and if you don’t want to come up, fine. I get that. But can you at least fucking respond so I know you’re not dead like everyone else seems to be?”

Melodramatic fuckwad. Another sigh.

“Fucking fine!” He’d yelled, than calmed himself. “Fine, I’ll be up here, wading through this shit storm alone.”

And then, predictably, he’d hung up. 

You might have felt the tiniest bit guilty before you remembered that he deserved the cold shoulder for being an asshole. Probably being an asshole. Most likely being a girlfriend-stealing, unappealing, lord of speech impediment-ing, asshole. 

So then you stopped feeling guilty and went back to feeling the cold kind of sad that you’d been feeling for the three hours since the board of directors at Peixes inc. had called your parents and informed them of Fef’s death. 

Maybe it isn’t the sadness that was cold, just this damned empty house, you think to yourself. Looking around at your large room with its tiled floors broken up only by rich purple rugs, black-marble-topped furniture, and assorted mirrors artfully propped against walls, you sigh to yourself and agree that this probably is not the best place to conduct an experiment on the effects of human emotion on body temperature. 

So you leave. 

It doesn’t take as much effort for you to get out of your bed as you thought it might, what with you being on the verge of a major emotional breakdown and all, and you make use of this unexpected energy by practically sprinting towards the main stairwell and nearly tripping down the smooth steps on your way to the first floor. 

It really is interesting how common safety precautions go out the window when you no longer give a flying fuck, you muse to yourself. Maybe you'll write a book. 

Your mind is so caught up in the momentary distractions that are thoughts of book signings and daytime television show interviews that you almost don’t realize that  
you’ve skidded through the side door that leads into the backyard and are staring at the pool. 

The water glints transparent and artificially blue under the starry night sky and because it’s heated (well of course it’s heated, why would anyone go swimming in a pool that is anything but heated?), you can see gentle wisps of steam rising from the surface into the cool night air. You rub your hands together, feeling the chill. Maybe it wasn’t the sadness, after all. There goes your publishing deal. 

The motion-sensor lights are off, you notice, so you’re standing in blackness except for the glow of the underwater pool lights. Your skin looks even more sickly pale in this lighting, how unfortunate. Fef used to tell you how lucky you were to have such a nice complexion. Her skin would go from cashew brown in the winter to caramel in the summers from all the time she spent outside for her swim team or for surfing…

The water is warm, you think. Maybe I should just, sit in there for a while. Then I’ll warm up. 

You look down at your clothes: expensive jeans rolled up just above your knees, expensive t-shirt made to look weathered, onyx earrings (you can’t see those but you lift a trembling hand to twist the one in your right ear just to be sure they’re there). 

And suddenly, you’re in the air. Did you jump? You must have. There’s a split second when you remember that your cell phone is in your pocket and that pool water might feel warm but is still pretty cold when you first get in and oh, shit, mom and dad are going to be home soon wait, nah, they want to close on the company tonight they’ll be out for hours and then you think nothing because the world around you is that eerie sort of water-quiet and you want to listen to this silence more than you’ve ever wanted to listen to anything ever. Like it’ll tell you things if you just, sit down. And listen. 

After a few moments, you find equilibrium with the water; that glorious feeling when you can move your limbs very, very slowly and still feel like you’re not in water or maybe that you are the water. It’s very hard to tell. 

You move slowly, inch by inch, through the glowy water and you watch the fabric of your t-shirt flow around you like instead of water you’re just walking through a breeze in slow-motion or some shit. The gentle warmth of the water is slowly replaced by a menacing chill as you slip quietly into the darker, deeper end of the pool and settle yourself on the floor. 

You enjoy a brief moment of hilarity as you remove your i-phone from your pocket and attempt to turn it on. Like you would text someone from the bottom of your pool. 

Like you have anyone to text anymore. 

And with that, the chill is back. You’ve disproven your hypothesis, well done Mr. Ampora. It wasn’t the cold evening that was giving you gooseflesh. It was your fucking feelings. 

“Motherfu--,” you sigh out, then clamp a hand over your mouth after the jet of bubbles has already broken the surface of the water. You’ve disturbed your equilibrium and the cool water settles around you like forgiveness. It only takes a few moments before you can no longer tell where your body ends and the water begins. 

Things are so fuckin’ easy to fix down here, you note inwardly. Simple fuckin’ physics or whatever. 

Why don’t I just stay down here?

The thought hits you like a ton of bricks, if bricks could whisper sensually in your ear and say we’re sorry for hitting you but listen to this great idea you just had. 

And before you can look at the bricks and explain than people will die if they stay underwater for too long but thanks for the suggestion, you look up to the surface and see the last of your air bubbles disappear. 

And you are inexplicably ok with that development. 

Like obtaining equilibrium, it only takes a few moments before you feel an effect. Your lungs burn. It’s the first warmth you’ve felt all night, though, so you just smile and curl your arms around yourself, trying to keep that warmth in. 

You hear all this shit about drowning, how it’s so scary and people gasp for air and get all bloated and it hurts like hell because your head and heart are screaming for oxygen but all you feel is peaceful. 

Like you could finally get some goddamn sleep. 

Who needs Feferi, anyway. You’ve got all of this water. Like a blanket. 

You breath in. It’s not a move for suicide, you think clumsily to yourself. Water is, like, mostly stuff you can breathe. Right?

You’re breathing. One, two, three breaths in. See?

Man, Fef would be so fuckin’ proud of you right now. 

Maybe you’ll talk to her tomorrow, after you nap for a bit. 

The water shifts around you. When did your eyes close?

You feel a current.

Eh, you think, curling your legs up under your arms, resting your head on the underwater wall of the pool, I’ll deal with it in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Eridan.


	6. Chapter 6

 

The one nurse, you think to yourself as you careen down the interstate, was definitely gay.

 

As the night whizzes by on either side of you and assholes in cars too close for comfort attempt to pass while you’re going close to 80 miles per hour, the only thing you can coherently think is that the nurse who had left you in the small, cold hospital room with your two dead friends was probably batting for the other team. Well, bully for her.

 

There’s an exit sign that you almost don’t see, and then there’s one of those generic, right-by-the-highway towns that boasts at least one shitty home grown diner along with about ten fast food chains and combination gas/mini-marts. You slow down, then speed up. You’re on what appears to be a main road. If you’re going to be honest, you’re not actually paying a great deal of attention to your surroundings, or your actions, right about now. You’re still just really fixated on that Maryam woman’s sexuality.

 

As Rose would say, you’re intentionally ruminating on something that seems completely unrelated to your situation to give your traumatized mind comfort, when in reality, you’re only able to ruminate on Maryam’s bedroom shenanigans because it relates so completely to Fef and AA being, well, deceased.

 

Maryam’s gay, so was AA. And FF, but that doesn’t rhyme as well. And all three of them are in a hospital right now; of course, only one of them is currently respiring. You take a brief pause in your mental fuck-all avalanche of thought to wonder if, maybe, you should call someone and let them know where you’re going.

 

Not Karkat.

 

But, you wonder to yourself, gritting your teeth, who else but Karkat?

 

“What?” Cellphone clamped against your ear - shit, almost missed that turn - you hear Karkat’s slightly raspy voice breaking through the whirling tornado of actual shit in your mind. “Sollux, I am actually quite in the middle of something right at this moment. Do you have an alarm on your butt-fucked cellular device that dings when it is an inconvenient time to burden me with your sighs of malcontent?”

 

Maryam’s totally a lesbian. You inhale, deeply. “KK, I’m driving down to Newport right now.” There’s a pause, and you think you hear laughter in the background. “Where are you, KK?” You hear his muffled voice speaking to someone who is not you, like he clamped a hand over the speaker and is making apologies to whoever the fuck he’s with. Finally, a crackling, signalling the removal of his hand.

 

“Sollux,” he begins, “do you have any plans to tell me why you’ve decided to make this journey to Rhode Island’s center for asinine tourists and wealthy fuckboys? Or is this a kind of pilgrimage for you, like, if you make it out of there without buying any chinsy merchandise you can ascend to a new level of not giving a shit about anything?”

 

There’s more chatter in the background, and you grip the steering wheel tightly. “KK,” you begin, trying to keep your teeth from chattering and your hands from jumping off of the steering wheel, “I need you to listen to me for one millisecond.” You resent having to make a big deal out of this. Even though it’s about the biggest deal of anything you’ve ever had happen. In any case, you know that your tone has conveyed what cannot be spoken. For all of his shortcomings, KK is immensely perceptive.

 

“Oh fuck,” you hear him get out, then there’s more shuffling and a thunk, as if he’d distanced himself further from whomever he was with and then, as a testament to how seriously he is taking your phone call, pulled the nearest door shut. “What the fuck happened?”

 

_It’s so easy,_ you think to yourself, _literally just say it._ _They died; Fef and AA died._ They’re dead. “...dead,” you choke out, teeth chattering so hard that they start to clamp repeatedly down on your lower lip. It’s not even cold. You hear Karkat inhale.

 

“What’s dead, Sollux?” His voice is low, like he already knows and is just trying to make you say it. He likes to play the therapist. Namely, your therapist.

 

“Who,” you sputter out, still letting the nighttime scenery fly past you, even as you enter residential areas and see those ‘We love our children; please drive safely!’ signs.

 

“Who’s dead?”

 

“A--,” you manage to force out, “and Ff--”.

 

Silence. An extended pause. “Shit.” There’s some crackling, some muffled conversation, then the sound of a solid door closing. “Sollux, don’t fucking do anything ok? Where are you?”

 

You almost laugh, but it’s a nervous laugh that means your body is trying to prevent you from crying. “You ass, I’m on my way to Newport,” you reply, spotting the exit for the bridge over to the island and carelessly switching lanes. “Actually, in about a minute, I’ll be in Newport.”

 

You can almost picture KK’s face, pissed that he forgot the beginning of your conversation and also just pissed at you. “Why the fuck,” he seethes, “are you hauling your grieving behind down to Newport?”

 

You slow down as traffic backs up at the bridge, bringing a hand up to swipe along your dampened cheeks. Wiping the moisture collected on your half-zipped-up sweatshirt, you return to gripping the steering wheel, turning your knuckles white. “Going to see FF’s next-of-kin,” you reply to KK, briefly distracted as traffic begins moving again. “Or at least their son. He sounded like kind of an asswipe on the phone, but maybe he’s just dealing with all of this shit.”

 

You know that KK is a bit surprised that you have formulated such a coherent and legally sensical plan, but you also know that won’t stop him from haranguing you. “So you thought it would be a really fucking good idea to drive in your condition?”

 

You roll your eyes, maneuvering your vehicle around some asshole’s hulking minivan. “I’m not pregnant, KK, if that’s what you mean by ‘condition’.”

 

“You know exactly the fuck I meant.”

 

“Yeah, I guess I did.”

 

A sigh. “Look,” he starts, and you can hear the distinct sound of his ancient Charger starting up, “I’m already on my way over to your place. I’ll just dick around there until you come back, and then I’ll be staying with you for oh,” he pauses, “the next fucking year or so.”

 

“You don’t have to stay with me, KK.” He might, though. You hadn't considered what kind of state you might be in once the initial shock wears off. He knows this, though.

 

“Sure I don’t.”

 

Traffic is moving again, and you are almost across the bridge and into Newport. “KK, I have to go.” You picture him running a hand through his already bird-nest-ready hair in frustration.

 

“Fucking fine,” he mutters. “I’ll hold down the fort.”

 

“Thanks, KK.” After a moment’s consideration you add, “I’ll call you when I’m on my way back.”

 

“Damn right you will.”

 

*click* The line goes dead.

 

Speeding your way off of the bridge and down into the chinsy little port town that greets you, it starts to seem impossibly ridiculous, this plan of yours. Just showing up, unannounced, to this guy’s house? Without any real reason other than that you’re grasping at straws of Fef’s life, trying to find something to hold onto? No, you remind yourself, you’re going to talk to this kid about moving Fef’s stuff out of her dorm. She has _had_  a lot of stuff; bedding, textbooks from last semester, stuffed animals that are normal and stuffed animals from AA that should have been made illegal.

 

After about ten minutes, you start to believe you may be nearing your destination. Fef always talked about how she’d come from affluence, and hey, here is a neighborhood of about ten McMansions, if McMansions smushed themselves together with about two more houses each. You look down at the scrap of paper in your hand and see the number, 4, which corresponds to an iron gate about two houses down.

 

Pulling up to the gate, you take in the house. Stone, it looks like, with one of those weird half-balconies over the door. No cars pulled out front next to the circular garden at the center of the circle, and what appear to be gas lamps on either side of the gate send strange flickers over your car. You reach out of your window and attempt to press what looks like the call button, but there is only static. Another button on the console looks promising; as you press it gently, you hear a beep, and then the gates start to swing open. You are too focused on the task of finding this person, this Eridan, to gawp at the cash that has been so blatantly splashed at this house.

 

You park by the front door, stepping out and walking up what must be ten steps before you reach the solid door frame. Another console of buttons resides on the stone wall and you’re about to try your luck with one of them before you hear a loud splash to your right.

 

“Hello?” You assume there’s a pool in the back, but no guest in their right mind would just skip back down the steps and approach someone taking a midnight swim in their private pool. So that is exactly what you do.

 

Taking the stairs at a casual pace and making your way around the house, you see what appears to be a wrought-iron fence surrounding a glowing pool with steam rising leisurely from its surface. The water is rushing up at the sides, indicating that the splash you heard must have come from someone entering the pool; that someone has yet to surface. You approach the fence and try to see into the pool, which is crystal clear blue aside from the presence of a darkened blob at the bottom of the deeper end.

 

The blob isn’t moving.

 

Maybe it’s the shock that makes you do it, or maybe it’s the quiet voice in your head beginning to yell _not another no one else will fucking die tonight_ , but your vision begins to blur at the edges. One foot’s on the top of the fence boosting you over and suddenly you’re in the air. Then you’re not. A quieter voice begins to bid you _stop, he might not be drowning_ , but you focus on running towards the pool until you can’t run any more and you’re in the air.

  
SPLASH. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Karkat was with his bf, by the way. Who could it be???
> 
> P.S. Sorry for the extended dry spell, I've been super busy with school and test prep and stuff. Y'all know how it is.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which points-of-view are switched with abandon.

When you open your eyes, you feel the instant sting of chlorine. You think you might be tearing up, but it is very hard for you to distinguish the salt water you may or may not be producing from the clear water from the pool. 

The pool. 

You turn your head, which makes your hair scrape on the porous concrete of what you take to be your pool deck. You see the pool, and then you see a person. He’s sitting right next to you, peering anxiously down at your face. He’s sopping wet. 

“Who,” you choke out, feeling a burn at the back of your throat, “the fuck are you?” You try to sit up without taking your eyes off of this person; he’s in all black, and isn’t that what burglars tend to wear? Burglars and murderers, you are sure. Propping yourself up with one arm while pulling your legs under you is more of an effort than you expected; your jeans are chaffing your legs and the heavy fabric has turned cold with the air around you. How long were you out? Were you even out at all?

“You were passed out,” the stranger says. “I had to resuscitate you.”

Your mind spins in circles. Resuscitate? Oh. 

“But no homo,” the stranger adds, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. His expression turns serious again as you attempt to shift so that you are facing him head-on. He reaches out to steady you, and you let him. His bony hands grip your sides and dig into your ribs painfully, like in steadying you he’s also trying to tether himself to something. Like the earth. And then it hits you.

“Holy shit,” you sputter, “did you dive into my fuckin’ pool?!” Your eyes tear wildly around, searching for weapons, potential hiding places. You feel the tight grip on your sides lessen, then leave completely. After a moment of this panic, you chance a look at the boy again. He has walked over to the chaise lounge you prefer and is grabbing something off of it. 

“Here,” he calls, throwing a ball of damp terry cloth at you from the lounge. The maid must have forgotten to pick up your used towel from earlier; you make a note to mention this to mother and father upon their return. In the meantime, you opt to wrap the fairly large, fairly soaked swathe of cloth around your shaking shoulders, which up until this point hadn’t been shaking. The stranger approaches you, arms crossed tightly. You notice for the first time that he is wearing glasses; they are skinny little ovals with glass spotted with chlorinated water. He must have dove in without stopping to take them off.

“You seem suicidal,” he says, “care to comment?” You almost choke. What right does this asshole have to invade your property and your privacy while you’re grieving, no less? You grunt and hoist yourself up into a standing position, staring the boy straight in the eye. He stares right back, unflinchingly. Right as you have taken in a breath to speak, he opens his mouth. “I’m Sollux Captor by the way. Feferi Peixes sent me.” 

\--/--

The boy, Eridan, you assume, looks like absolute shit. 

Despite the darkness surrounding the both of you, you can tell that he is almost fluorescent pale and that he hadn't bothered to change into appropriate swimming attire before diving to what he must have intended to be his death. His hair is in that strange place between gelled and deflated, and pieces of it hang haphazardly around his face. He still has a pair of glasses on, and their huge, wannabe-geek frames make his eyes look enormous in the limited light. His mouth is hanging open, having evidently just associated your name with his dead friend. 

“Sollux?” He looks utterly pathetic. Then he looks angry. “What the fuck are you doing here?!” 

You lean back on your heels and cross your arms, telling yourself that this boy must be in shock and that he cannot be held accountable for his actions. “I came down because I thought you might need some...” here you pause. What did you think he needed? If you’re honest with yourself, which you resent being, what did you think you needed?

“Support,” Eridan spits. You nod, in spite of yourself. That was the word. A+ for him. “Why the fuck would I need support from the like a’ you?” You don’t actually know. He does seem like he was doing quite fine without you, though. You decide to tell him so. 

“I guess I don’t know. You looked like you were doing quite alright without anyone else here.” You glance pointedly at the pool, twisting your features into a mask of sardonic earnestness. And then he charges you. 

He hits you like a mattress, solid but not really in control of his own actions. You stumble back until you can feel grass under your feet, and then you allow yourself to be brought down onto the ground as Eridan scrambles up to look down at you, foot poised to land square on your chest. 

You do not think so. 

You grab his foot, twist with both hands, until he loses his already tentative balance and falls, scraping his chin on the concrete when his hands can’t break enough of his fall. “What,” you gasp, unaccustomed to this much physical strain in so short a time, “the fuck,” and he’s on his back, grabbing for your ankles, “was that?” You kick his hands away, walking towards the pool to grab the cellphone you had, miraculously, had the presence of mind to set down before playing hero to the drowning douchewad. You hear grunting and a small cry before the rhythm of feet on concrete prompts you to turn around and see Eridan bolting towards you, arms extended. “Are you fucking seriou--,” you begin, and then there’s water. 

\--/--

When you break the surface of the water, you can feel Sollux struggling underneath you. You have both hands in his hair, holding him underwater, and his angry expletives are coming out as harmless currents of bubbles. You move with him, allowing his erratic thrashing to guide your pressure in order to better subdue him. Finally, he goes still. 

You let him up, slowly, so that the top of his head emerges first and his torso after that. His breathing is ragged and his hands are at his nose, pinching to expel the water evidently clogged inside. You are suddenly struck with something like apprehension, or fear. If you’re honest with yourself, taking him down had been a complete fluke. He had let you the first time, but throwing him into the pool was not something that you would have thought yourself physically capable of. His glasses are crooked, you notice, as he advances towards you. 

He clears his throat. Before he can announce his intentions, you cry out. “I loved her first!” You voice is quavery and weak, but his head raises. 

“What are you even fucking talking about?” You see water streaming down his cheekbones, disturbed by his speech.  


“You fuckin’ heard me, douche,” you reply, slowly putting more space between yourself and him. “I loved her first, an’ you bein’ her fuckin’ emergency contact or what the fuck ever doesn’t mean any-fuckin’-thing!” You cough to punctuate your declaration, glancing up at him to gauge his reaction.

He laughs. The prick opens his thin lips and lets loose the most appalling cackle you have ever heard in your life. You feel your cheeks reddening from anger or embarrassment. Probably both. Barely pulling himself together, Sollux looks down at you, crossing his arms. 

“Feferi Peixes,” he begins, and you almost want to strangle him for saying her name, “was the most flaming lesbian that I have ever met.” 

You feel as though something has put a massive dent in your skull. “What?”

Sollux, for his part, looks genuinely uncomfortable. “You didn’t know? I just figured, being her best friend and all, she would’ve told you.” You shift in place, trying to wrap your brain around this information. Fef… a lesbian? “She was dating her roommate.”

Something inside of you snaps. “That bitch Amy?” You think you can see Sollux’s eyes narrow. 

“That ‘bitch’ was her girlfriend, you fuck. And her name was Aradia.” His voice cracks saying her name. Suddenly, things in your mind become a little more organized.

“So,” you begin, cautiously, “Ara-whatever was Fef’s girlfriend. And your…?” You wait for him to catch on. He does. 

“She was my best friend; we grew up together.” You see a disturbance in the water and look down to see Sollux’s fists clenched tightly against his sides. 

And suddenly, you’re crying. 

They’re these fat, pathetic sobs that wrack your body with shivers and will not let up for anything. You close your eyes, unwilling to see Sollux’s face as you basically unload everything that has been trapped inside of you all day. Face in your hands, you cry for the relationship that you, evidently, spent years inventing for nothing. You feel snot beginning to drip from your nose in a torrent, and you blindly wipe at it with your shaking hands. “Oh, fuck,” you hear Sollux sigh, and then there are a pair of arms around you and a bony shoulder underneath your chin. He pats at your back as your chests press together, creating areas of warmth and cold simultaneously. 

You settle down after a while, sniffling against Sollux’s sweatshirt and trying to regain your composure. The back-patting settles into the pleasant sensation of Sollux’s hand on your upper back, holding you together. When he speaks, you can feel his voice reverberate up through his back and chest. 

“You need to come inland and get Fef’s stuff,” he says, voice thin like it was on the phone. “She would have wanted you to have it.”

You pull back from his slightly awkward embrace, forcing yourself to look at him in the eye. “Can I go tonight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't do the perspective-flippy thing, but I might have gotten bored hahaha ^^'  
> No judging.


End file.
